


Tape & Glue

by JokesterWrites



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-13
Updated: 2016-10-13
Packaged: 2018-08-22 06:38:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8276300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JokesterWrites/pseuds/JokesterWrites
Summary: Oswald always loved birds.





	

Oswald always loved birds. Gertrude remembered when he was very young, barely walking and she had taken him to the zoo. His fascinated eyes followed each animal, but the penguin exhibit was where he pressed his face to the glass, tiny pudgy hands grasping towards the flightless birds.

When he was older, Gertrude gave him a scrapbook. His eyes had grown wide and immediately he scurried for a drawer in his dresser, returning with clippings and some glue. He had collected every piece of information he could on penguins. That birthday he spent the afternoon on the floor, clippings spread around him and his tongue between his teeth as he decided how each piece should be pasted into his new book.

She would flip through magazines at offices, and tear out the pages discreetly if they had anything to do with birds. Oswald was always delighted and she loved seeing him happy. He was always such a good boy. Such a happy boy. Which is why it shocked her when Oswald came home from school, tears running down his face.

He ran past her, weeping openly and slammed his bedroom door shut.

“Oswald?” Gertrude tapped her knuckles gently against the door, “Oswald what’s wrong? Talk to mamma please Oswald…” She could hear him sobbing inside and she carefully opened the door.

Oswald was kneeling on the floor, shoulders shaking as he cried. A quiet gasp escaped her, hand raised to her mouth. He was surrounded by the torn pages of his scrapbook and he was ripping another page out in anger.  
“I hate them! I hate them! I hate them!” He chanted, tearing each page out and crumbling it before throwing it to the floor.

“Oswald!” Gertrude rushed forward when he tried tearing at the spine of the book. Tugging it out of his hand, she set it aside and gathered her son into her arms. “What is the matter my little Cobblepot? Tell your mamma what’s wrong.”  
He clung to her, burying his face against her chest and crying. “They called me Penguin. Said I looked like one. That I waddle like a dumb bird when I walk. They made fun of me, mamma!” Her heart broke for her baby. That already the world was against him, treating him differently. She’d tried to make things easier for him. Give him an americanized version of her last name, dress him well, but even that didn’t seem to have helped.

“They’re just mean bullies, Oswald.” Pulling a handkerchief from her pocket, she held Oswald back from her and wiped away his tears. “Now why don’t we have a nice cup of coco and forget those mean children. They don’t like you because you’re different. They’re jealous… you’re not like the other children Oswald. You’re smart and handsome, and you’re going to do great things.” Gathering Oswald into her arms, she carried him back to the living room and wrapped a blanket around him.

He was still sniffling, watching her make the hot chocolate with watery eyes. She noticed the scuffed shoes and the dirt stains on his knees, but said nothing. Instead she snuggled with him on the couch and distracted his mind from the events of today, though no doubt there would be more days like this to come. They watched movies together, Oswald enjoying the features when dancing and singing filled the black and white fuzzy screen. Eventually his eyes drooped and her boy fell asleep.

Very carefully Gertrude picked Oswald up, tucking him into bed and sweeping his dark locks back to kiss his forehead. “Sweet dreams my little Cobblepot.” She murmured before stepping back.

Underneath her foot, paper crinkled and she glanced behind to survey the mess across his floor. Kneeling, she gathered every scrap of torn paper and the discarded book. Taking them to the kitchen table, Gertrude pulled out some tape and glue. She spent the rest of the night piecing the book back together. It was a hobbled job, and no where near perfect, but Oswald had spent so much time putting it together with care and love. Even if he didn’t want it back, she was determined to make it better.

In the morning, Oswald didn’t question where his book was. In fact, after that day he never spoke about birds. The birthday trips to the zoo ceased and it seemed like her little boy was growing up far too quickly. Gertrude hid the book amongst her own romance novels in her bedroom, knowing Oswald would never find it there.

And he didn’t.

Not until after her death and he wandered the empty apartment, hands trailing over the furniture. He had a box that he filled with small items that reminded him of his mother. That silk and lace scarf she had so admired. The perfume she wore for as long as he could remember. It all brought tears to his eyes, but Oswald forced himself to continue. He didn’t have much time. Not near as much as he would have liked.

His empire had fallen and he was a wanted man. The best he could do was hide away these last mementos of his mother’s life somewhere safe. Shaking fingers trailed over the spines on her bookshelf and Oswald smiled weakly at the titles, until his eyes fell on the leather bound scrapbook of his youth.

“What…” Oswald murmured, gripping the book and letting it fall open in his hands. He stared at the pages, so carefully taped together and sewn back into the spine. A piece of paper fluttered out, and Oswald awkwardly knelt to grab it.  
“My dearest Oswald… For when you love yourself again. Remember, penguins aren’t just flightless birds. They’re Kings too. Swift and fast in deep waters. I know you don’t tell me everything, not since you were a small boy, but a mother worries. I love you so much my little Cobblepot.”

It was written in his mother’s soft flowing hand, but the words blurred before his eyes and Oswald scrubbed the back of his hand against his eyes. He was crying again, the loss of his mother a wound torn anew. She had kept this book after all this time, fixing the marks of his anger the only way she knew how. He wished he could do the same, that a bit of tape and glue could fix his mistakes and bring his mother back to him.

But tape and glue can’t fix everything. Oswald hugged the book to his chest and wept.


End file.
